


I Knock, and Then I Knock Twice

by Mackaley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Coming In Pants, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Discreet Gentlemen's Club (Good Omens), Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, First Time, Glory Hole, Glove Kink, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Fanart, Leather, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27417778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley
Summary: But the thing that stops Crowley in his tracks is the two large holes on either side of the room, positioned just below waist height. He’s not an idiot. He’s a demon, and he’s lived on this planet for thousands of years. He knows a glory hole when he sees one.Which is why he stands in shock at the fact that Aziraphale has clearly entered the adjoining room on the left.-----Crowley wakes up twenty-six years after his fight with Aziraphale at St. James’ Park and is stunned to discover some new hobbies the angel has picked up in his absence.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 377





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aiwa produced an absolutely stunning body of work for Kinktober, but her [art for the glory hole prompt](https://twitter.com/nsfwaiwa/status/1321395467071180801?s=21) punched me in the face and then I ran away with it. Thank you for your consistently incredible art, and also for being such a lovely person, Aiwa!
> 
> And, as always, thank you to chamyl for betaing ❤️
> 
> Title is from “Getting Into Knives” by the Mountain Goats. Chapters update every other day.
> 
> Please check the end note for the specifics on the dubious consent tag, if you need it.

Crowley wakes up with a pit in his stomach, and his first thought is of Aziraphale.

He rolls onto his back with a groan and scrubs at his face, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eye sockets. His eyelids blink open reluctantly and he stares up at the decorative plaster ceiling. The dim light that pours in through the window indicates it’s some time in the early morning.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but clearly it hasn’t been long enough given his stomach feels as leaden as it did when he crawled into bed in the first place. He remembers Aziraphale storming away from him, the word _fraternizing_ ringing in his ears, and it’s like his stomach is physically churning, eating away at him from the inside. 

Despite everything they’ve been through, it’s clear that Aziraphale still inherently distrusts him when his nose is put to the grindstone. A suicide pill, he’d called it. As if Crowley could ever leave this world when Aziraphale was still in it. 

If Aziraphale would ever let him explain himself, would just _understand_ and do him this favor - a favor he’d thought reasonable given their relationship - he wouldn’t have to be here, lying in his bed, nearly sick with his racing thoughts. He wonders how long he’s been asleep and if it would be appropriate to at least triple the length. 

He rolls onto his front and fluffs up his pillow aggressively before burying his face into the soft cushion and screaming, his fingers twisting into the sheets near his head. It barely helps. He flips back over and figures he can at least deal with one of the thoughts running through his head. He summons a newspaper to check the current date and his eyes go wide. 

_17 March 1888_

“Well,” he says. “Shit.”

* * *

It’s a couple weeks before he goes looking for Aziraphale. It takes that long for the pit to ease up, for him to not fly into a rage or a depression at the thought of seeing the angel. He spends the time wondering if he should apologise. He doesn’t need to apologise, of course. He wasn’t the one who overreacted to a fairly straightforward request, and he wasn’t the one to belittle their five thousand years of companionship. But some chocolates or pastries or wine usually ease the way after they’ve had a fight that neither will acknowledge again. 

In the end he decides to bring nothing. A concession to himself that he did very little wrong in that situation, and while he is definitely willing to make amends with Aziraphale, to sweep it under the rug and never ask for it again, he lets himself have the dignity of not apologising. No, instead he’ll visit the bookshop, swagger in as if little has changed, as if this was just another long absence in the line of duty, and offer to take Aziraphale to lunch. Simple. Safe.

He looks himself over in the mirror before he leaves, adjusts his cravat and runs his fingers through his hair. He nods, pulls on his black leather gloves, and leaves for the bookshop.

When he reaches the familiar burgundy and brick building, he can’t help but feel like he’s coming home, and that realization feels hollow in his chest. He strolls up to the front door, an _angel_ on his lips, and then rams his shoulder unexpectedly against the glass pane as the door doesn’t budge. He frowns and jiggles the handle, looking up and down the door, and realizes it’s locked. It’s never been locked for him before, not really. He knocks insistently at the glass.

“Aziraphale?” 

There’s no answer, so he extends his senses and discovers that Aziraphale isn’t even inside the building. He smiles despite himself at that; trust Aziraphale to be closed and away during peak shopping hours on a Saturday afternoon. He probes further and senses Aziraphale is less than a mile away. He has to make a decision then: wait for Aziraphale at the bookshop or risk the angel being none too pleased to see him after twenty-six years apart when he’s going about his own business.

Crowley’s never been one to shy away from a casual risk.

He follows Aziraphale’s aura to a relatively nondescript brick building, two stories tall. He extends his senses again to confirm that Aziraphale is inside, along with several dozen humans. Crowley rocks from foot to foot, gloved hands shoved into his pockets as he peers up at the windows on the second floor. He briefly considers walking back to the shop and waiting for Aziraphale there, but then the large wooden door in front of him swings open, and he recognizes his opportunity. He cloaks himself so he’s not discovered and slips past the man exiting the building. 

The main hall is spacious, open, and inviting. Dark wood trims the doorways and accents, and sunlight pours in generously from the large windows on the upper floor. A large staircase in the center of the room leads to the upper landing, which appears to be lined with large paintings and smaller plaques. 

He feels Aziraphale’s presence coming from his right and makes his way down the long hallway that leads off from the lobby, following the laughter and conversation that filters through the air. He comes to a stop in front of an open doorway, and his heart clenches in his chest as he sees his angel there.

Aziraphale stands with a group of men, sipping from a glass of brandy, and Satan, he looks exactly the same. Exactly as beautiful and soft as he always does, and Crowley hates how Aziraphale can take his unnecessary breath away, even when they’re mad at each other. 

Aziraphale stands out among the men here, his ever-present creams and beiges a sharp relief to the darker and more muted colors everyone else is attired in. A ray of sunlight shines in through the window and lights up Aziraphale’s hair, and oh, Crowley is parched for the sight of him, and he drinks it in eagerly, ignoring the heartbroken pang in his chest. 

The lines of his face, deep in his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, his large ears, the slight upturn of his nose, are so deeply written into Crowley’s heart that he nearly calls out Aziraphale’s name before he can help himself. There is a comfort in Aziraphale’s steadfast resistance to change his physical appearance. Aziraphale is a familiar place he can always come to rest. He wonders if Aziraphale feels the same about his own rapidly changing looks. 

The sound of Aziraphale’s laughter pulls him out of his reverie, and even though the angel’s making a convincing show of it, Crowley can tell the laughter is hollow, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He wants to imagine he could pull something genuine out of him and make him smile in that small way he only ever seems to give Crowley.

Crowley decides to head back to the bookshop. This isn’t the place for this reunion, surrounded by humans. But then Aziraphale excuses himself from the conversation and walks towards the doorway. Crowley panics and moves back into the hallway. He’s confident Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to see through his cloaking miracle, not if he wasn’t looking for it, but he still presses himself flat against the wall all the same. 

Aziraphale strides down the hall back towards the lobby, and Crowley follows at a safe distance, surprised when Aziraphale makes his way up the stairs instead of exiting the building. He continues following the angel to a narrow hallway off the upper landing. Aziraphale comes to a stop in front of a door and looks around before ducking into the room. 

Crowley looks for his next move and yanks open the door of the room adjacent to the one Aziraphale just entered. He assumes it must be a supply closet based on the small, narrow size of it and enters.

It is not a supply closet. 

It takes him a moment to understand exactly what he’s seeing. The room is narrow, barely wider than his own frame, like the fact that it’s its own space instead of a gap between two rooms is coincidence. The floors and walls look as though someone has tried very hard to keep them clean, but the sheer amount of filth it receives makes the task impossible. There are tally marks and initials and definitely several phalluses carved into the walls, lower to the floor. But the thing that stops Crowley in his tracks is the two large holes on either side of the room, positioned just below waist height. He’s not an idiot. He’s a demon, and he’s lived on this planet for thousands of years. He knows a glory hole when he sees one.

Which is why he stands in shock at the fact that Aziraphale has clearly entered the adjoining room on the left.

A sharp rap of knuckles against the wall startles Crowley and he nearly yelps in surprise before swallowing it down. Following Aziraphale here was a bad idea. Not that he ever could have possibly guessed that _this_ is what he was following him into, but his heart thunders in his chest and he doesn’t know what he can possibly do to save face. Maybe bolt out of the room and back to his flat and sleep for another good decade or so to really shake this knowledge out of his system. Yes, great plan, clearly the best for this surreal situation he’s found himself in. 

But then Aziraphale knocks again and before Crowley knows what he’s doing, he raises his fist and knocks back in the same pattern.

“Oh, hello.” Aziraphale’s voice chimes clear through the wall and Crowley is so stupidly in love with this angel and the polite greeting he gives before he apparently _engages in anonymous sexual congress_.

He can’t respond or Aziraphale will recognize his voice. He has to leave. He absolutely cannot follow this thread to its natural conclusion because it’s _wrong_. Aziraphale is expecting anyone else but him to be in this room, and he would be taking advantage of the very (un)fortunate set of circumstances that’s brought him here. It’s deceitful, sleazy, opportunistic, and would destroy completely the trust and companionship they’ve built up over so many years. If Aziraphale found out, it would prove to him that Crowley really is nothing more than a demon. Leaving is the only option besides Aziraphale sticking his cock into Crowley’s mouth.

The thought alone drops him to his knees and he curses inwardly. He starts to get up, but then he hears the soft shift of fabric and shuffling footsteps. The anticipation sends a low swoop of arousal through his gut, and then Aziraphale comes into view, sticking his half-hard cock through the hole in the wall.

He feels like he’s in a dream and wonders if maybe he hasn’t actually woken up from his quarter-century nap. Because this is _Aziraphale’s_ erection in front of him, perfect and _thick_ , so thick Crowley already knows his jaw will be deliciously sore taking it into his mouth. Those are Aziraphale’s balls hanging heavy right at the base of his cock and it’s Aziraphale’s belly swelling just a little above his erection, covered with a mouth-watering thatch of hair that Crowley wants to bury his nose into.

He has to leave. He has to leave, and he can never, ever tell Aziraphale about this. The angel might be embarrassed about his sexual partner bursting out of the room and running away at the sight of his dick, but it is infinitely better than the alternative of Crowley taking advantage of the only time he’ll ever know what the weight of Aziraphale on his tongue feels like, how the angel sounds when he comes. 

It’s taking too long for him to make a decision. He knows the right thing, the moral thing to do. But then his traitorous mind asks him _why not?_ , and well. Curiosity’s always been his downfall. If Aziraphale wants this, wants an anonymous encounter at his social club for a bit of pleasure and relaxation--if the _point_ is to not know whose mouth, whose hands are bringing you to climax, then he can pretend. He can pretend he’s just a human and take this to his metaphorical grave.

He swallows down the guilt and reaches up to take Aziraphale in his gloved hand.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps in surprise. “Oh, the feeling of your glove is actually quite lovely.”

Crowley doesn’t know why he didn’t expect Aziraphale to be so very Aziraphale while receiving a handjob. He’s certainly thought about it enough.

He tightens his grip and drags his hand along Aziraphale’s length, feels him fill to full hardness under his touch. His hand moves slowly, steadily on Aziraphale’s cock, the precome glistening at the tip ruining his leather gloves as he drags it back down the shaft. He can’t find it in himself to care. He can miracle another pair - he can’t conjure the rest of this.

Aziraphale is _vocal_ , a detail that’s going to enhance his fantasies in the future. A steady stream of pleased sighs and soft moans pour through the wall and Crowley categorizes all of them. A deep groan when he tightens his fist on an upstroke, a low grunt when he twists at the head. He is an amateur determined to become an expert in the instrument that is Aziraphale in such a limited rehearsal time.

His own arousal is sharp and dizzying and he finds himself rutting against the wall as he watches the head of Aziraphale’s cock slip in and out of the tight ring of his fingers, smearing precome along the black of his leather gloves. He reaches his other hand down to palm at himself through his trousers, just enough to take the edge off.

Aziraphale’s cock is flushed red all the way down now, his balls drawn up tighter, and Crowley can’t help it. He’s already so far into this terrible thing that he can’t back out. He might as well enjoy the mouth-watering sight in front of him. 

He continues to work his hand along Aziraphale’s shaft and settles his back along the narrow back wall. His legs spread as widely as they can in the cramped space, and he cups the bulge in his trousers, feeling his own cock leaking and reveling in the muted sensation that comes from his glove. He uses the hand on Aziraphale’s cock to draw it closer to his mouth and slips it past his lips, gives a firm suck at the head. 

An involuntary groan pulls from deep in his chest at the first taste, at Aziraphale’s thick cock splitting him open and straining the corners of his mouth, and he doesn’t notice that Aziraphale falls momentarily silent. The taste of him is salty and clean, and Crowley licks and thrusts his tongue along the underside of the spongy head as he continues to suckle and lavish his attention there. His hand moves in tandem with his lips, assisted by the saliva that gathers where his mouth is stretched obscenely wide around Aziraphale’s thick length. Aziraphale presses forward, his plush stomach digging into the hole in the wall, and his moans turn into cries and keens as Crowley sinks lower and lower with each pass until the head of his cock nudges the back of his throat and his mouth is completely _full_. He could live here for the rest of his life, stuffed to the brim with his angel’s cock. 

Crowley wonders as he squeezes and digs his heel into his own aching cock how many men Aziraphale has taken his pleasure from like this. This clearly isn’t the first time - his confident knock on the wall and lack of hesitation in getting started demonstrated that. A wave of jealousy crashes through him and gets caught in the circling pit of guilt and arousal that settles in his stomach. But then the jealousy dissipates as he pulls his lips back to press wet, open kisses along the shaft, his soft tongue lavishing every inch it touches. Aziraphale may have done this before, and he may not know that Crowley is here now, but it is still _Crowley_ that he is taking his pleasure from. It’s still Crowley who gets to feel filthy and objectified as Aziraphale uses him as nothing more than a means to a messy, lustful end. 

He sucks Aziraphale back into his mouth, his jaw sore and his lips shiny with spit, and the ruined leather of his gloves glides along his erection. He’s so close to his own orgasm even though he’s just been rubbing against his own hand through his clothes, but he wants Aziraphale to come first. He tightens his grip on Aziraphale’s erection and swirls his tongue messily around the head.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale moans loudly. “Oh, I’m close. Please, just a little bit more. Please, please, please…”

He continues to beg, the words whispered like a prayer, and Crowley speeds up his hand, parts his lips and rests the angel’s cock at the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale comes with a loud moan, and his spend pulses and drips down Crowley’s hand and wrist and chin. The demon is delirious with want, but he works Aziraphale through the aftershocks with a slow, firm grip, squeezing every last drop out of him. 

Crowley waits until Aziraphale steps back from the wall before he nearly rips the buttons off his own trousers and pulls his own hard and dripping cock out. He fists himself with his soiled glove, the angel’s come mixing with his precome and making his grip slick and filthy. It only takes a few quick pumps before he’s fucking up into his fist and his orgasm slams through him, his come joining the mess on his hand. He pants and slumps back against the wall to catch his breath.

The door to the next room opens and closes, and then he hears the angel’s careful footsteps down the hall. He remains slumped on the dirty floor and without the delirium of arousal coursing through his veins, the guilt comes back in full force. He cleans himself up with a snap, rips his gloves off, and buries his face in his hands. 

How can he face Aziraphale again after this, with this secret buried in a shallow grave in his chest? How can he possibly face another meal with him, those pleased little hums and moans around a utensil, knowing what it was like to hear them with the angel’s cock in his mouth? How can he live with himself after breaking so thoroughly the trust of his best friend, the being he loves most in this world?

And still, how can he go on living, knowing that this is something Aziraphale partakes in, and not immediately jump at the next chance to experience it again if it presents itself to him?

Crowley stands up, his long legs stiff and unhappy with the awkward angle they were forced into, and adjusts his suit, smooths the fabric down with his long fingers. He then walks out of the room, down the stairs, and leaves the building, trying to reconcile the warring feelings within him.

* * *

Aziraphale waits, hidden in a small alcove down the hall, when he finally hears the door open. His heart pounds in his chest, blood rushing through his ears until it’s all he can hear, but he has to know. He has to be sure that man is who he thinks he is. 

Light footsteps round the corner and he ducks his head out, only for his heart to seize with the immediacy that he recognizes that swaggering gait. Crowley heads quickly down the hall and turns down the stairs, and Aziraphale presses himself back up against the wall. His hand rests over the thundering thing in his chest and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

When the man-- _Crowley_ \--had taken him into his mouth, he let out a groan that he wouldn’t have recognized if it had been any other single person on the planet. But he _knew_ Crowley, knew the exact tone and timbre of his voice even, apparently, when it was aroused and muffled because he’d had his-- _good Lord_.

Aziraphale is paralyzed with his thoughts for several minutes until he’s sure Crowley has left the building, and then he steps out and paces around the hall, wringing his hands in worry.

How long has Crowley been back? Why hasn’t he come to see him? He knows he’d made a right mess of things the last time they’ve seen each other, but he hadn’t expected Crowley to be away from him for so long, even if he was still angry and hurt. Aziraphale has felt the past quarter century of loneliness more acutely than any of their separations before, even the ones that spanned centuries. It’s what led him to this.

It’s not like he wasn’t already thinking of Crowley - he did every time he had engaged in this activity over the past several years. The anonymity made it easy to pretend, even if he knew it was only a fantasy.

A small thrill runs through him when he realizes that it was indeed Crowley’s hands (through those sinful gloves) and Crowley’s mouth that had brought him so much pleasure, more than he’d ever experienced in his previous dalliances. 

But then he stops pacing as his stomach flips when he realizes that perhaps Crowley didn’t know it was him. Although, he _must_ have known it was him, because why else would he have been at this particular club? Crowley could have left, he reasons, if he hadn’t wanted to engage sexually with him, but clearly he did, and oh, isn’t that something?

His thoughts and emotions race through his head and he figures he needs a few good days of wearing circles into the rugs of the bookshop and several out-loud arguments with himself before he can really sort how he’s feeling.

He just wishes Crowley had said hi before now. It’s been twenty-six years, their longest separation since they began the Arrangement, and he’s _missed_ him so terribly. 

If Crowley is back from wherever he’s been, then hopefully he’ll drop by the shop soon and they can put their argument behind them. He can find the boldness within him to apologise to the demon and take him to dinner, and hopefully, with enough courage, to deliver on the promises the past thirty minutes have presented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gives Aziraphale a handjob and a blowjob through a glory hole. Aziraphale only realizes it’s him halfway through, but neither say anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the end notes for specifics on the dubious content tag, if needed.

It’s been a full week since the incident, and Crowley hasn’t stopped by the bookshop.

Aziraphale is disappointed and relieved, both understanding and confused. He knows Crowley needs time. They both do after a serious argument. And after what happened at the club, he gave it about fifty-fifty odds on whether that would spur Crowley into action or whether it would deter him from visiting altogether. The understanding of a need for space and their respect of that distance is something Aziraphale has always felt grateful for, but now he just feels lost and lonely.

He’s in the library of the club alone this week, and he can’t stop reading the same sentence over and over as his mind is elsewhere, periodically casting himself outwards for any trace of Crowley’s presence. Desperately hoping, desperately waiting. 

It’s late afternoon, the sun coming in warm and golden through the high windows, when something finally triggers his thoughts and he looks up with anticipation, expecting to see Crowley standing in the doorway. The demon is nowhere to be seen, but Aziraphale _feels_ him, knows he’s nearby, and the low-grade arousal that’s thrummed through him over the past seven days and fueled more masturbation sessions than he’s ever partaken in before surges with excitement. 

He places the book down, only a couple pages further than when he started, and makes his way to the lobby, tries not to look as if his eyes are frantically darting around for a glimpse of Crowley. 

As he walks up the stairs, he can feel Crowley following him, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, a small thrill of desire running along his spine. It feels dangerous, and he feels wanted, _hunted_ , and his cock reacts in kind to the mix of heady hormones swirling through him now. 

He walks down the hall and stands in front of the room he entered last week, takes a breath, and walks inside. When he closes the door, a silence permeates the air. The only thing he can hear is the thump of his heart and a faint ringing in his ears as he waits. And waits. Each second crawls by as he stands stock still.

A minute later the door to the adjacent space opens, and closes, and he sighs out a breath of relief. He knocks against the wall and immediately hears the knock back. Crowley is on the other side of the wall. Crowley came back for this, for _him_.

He stands back from the hole in the wall, the backs of his knees bumping into the low, plush bench that occupies the corner of the room, and he can see through the awkward angle that Crowley is already on his knees, held still and watching him intently. 

His cock is already hard, bulging obviously in his trousers, and he rubs himself through the fabric slowly, cupping his palm along his length and dragging his hand up and down. He squeezes himself with a groan that spills from the back of his throat, and Crowley’s lips part, his pink tongue darting out to wet them. He can only see the lower half of Crowley’s face, but he imagines the demon looking up at him, wide-eyed and hungry, as Aziraphale takes his time in undressing, building the anticipation between them until it’s tangible, until it can be held and taken and swallowed down. 

His fingers tremble as he undoes his button fly, popping each one open in its own time, and then pushes his trousers down to his thighs, dragging his fingernails as he goes and shivering as his skin feels like it’s vibrating beneath him. He shuffles forward to the hole in the wall, Crowley’s thin lips and wide chin disappearing from view, and then he pulls his underwear down in one swift motion.

Crowley’s sharp inhale at the sight of him makes his cock jump, and then he’s moving forward again to press up against the wall, unable to resist the thought of Crowley’s touch any longer. It seems the demon felt the same desperation because his mouth is on him in an instant. Aziraphale breathes a punched-out “ _Yes_ ” as Crowley sinks down to the base quickly, and then hollows his cheeks and sucks in a slow drag as he pulls back up towards the head. 

He takes hold of Aziraphale’s erection, _without the glove_ , Aziraphale thinks as he presses his forehead against the wall and screws his eyes up in pleasure. Long, delicate fingers trace up and down his hot length, and Aziraphale can picture it with perfect clarity. He can see the flex of Crowley’s tendons and the jut of his knuckles and his wrist as his hand works up and down, twists and pulls almost to the point of pain, but never reaching it, just sending waves and jolts of pleasure through Aziraphale’s corporation. He’s spent hours, days studying those hands and how they move, imagined them gripping onto him and thrusting inside him. And now those elegant hands are working him, playing him like a well-learned instrument, and it’s everything Aziraphale can do to not sing out Crowley’s very specific praises.

This time is different than the last; Crowley’s movements are more assured, slower, like he’s taking his time and savoring every second he’s afforded. Aziraphale can’t find it in him to complain, not when Crowley has started kissing along his cock, sucking wetly with his lips and pressing his tongue along the underside as he lavishes attention on every single centimeter of him, luxuriating in the weight and feel.

Crowley suddenly swallows him down, his curved nose pushing against Aziraphale’s stomach, and Aziraphale’s hips buck forward involuntarily. Crowley coughs in surprise and Aziraphale pulls back hastily.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean--”

But then Crowley’s fingers extend through the hole, curling over the edge of it, and silently coax his cock back through. He shifts forward and Crowley’s mouth is back on his cock, burying him to the hilt and breathing deeply. The head of Aziraphale’s cock nudges the back of the demon’s throat, and then Crowley swallows reflexively and the tight squeeze around him makes him moan, his toes curling in his shoes. He wants to hold Crowley still, place his hand on his long, vulnerable neck, and feel his cock slide in and out as Crowley holds himself open. He clears his throat gently and takes a chance, stepping back to slip himself out of the demon’s mouth.

“Unless you’d like me to be rougher? I would like that very much, but I understand if you’d rather continue as we’ve been.”

He waits to see how Crowley will answer him, if he’ll sound wrecked when he does. But instead, Crowley just knocks on the wall and Aziraphale takes it as permission to proceed.

“I need you to come closer. Can you do that for me?”

Crowley hesitates for only a moment before the lower half of his face comes fully into view. He’s being bold, showing so much of his face like this when he clearly means to remain a stranger, just another human for Aziraphale to chase his pleasure in. Aziraphale wants to reach down and take Crowley’s broad chin in his hand, stroke his thumb along his red, swollen lips, and coax his mouth open with his fingers. He wants to sink to his own knees and kiss Crowley too, but that’s not why they’re here. That’s not a game they can play.

Crowley holds his mouth open, his soft pink tongue peeking into view, and Aziraphale squeezes the base of his cock to stave off the sharp wave of arousal that crashes through him as he now _knows_ exactly what that tongue feels like.

“That’s it. So good, thank you.” Crowley emits a soft whine and opens his mouth wider, holds his tongue flat, the tip pressed against the backs of his front teeth.

Aziraphale holds onto his cock and guides it slowly into Crowley’s eagerly waiting mouth. He rests the head on his tongue and then pushes forward slowly, making sure the length drags fully along the eager muscle, until he’s enveloped completely by Crowley’s mouth and throat. He pulls back, and pushes forward harder, gives a few more experimental thrusts and then lets himself go and thrusts quickly into Crowley’s mouth.

“This _mouth_ of yours,” he breathes. And he’s so dizzy with it, with the fog of arousal and knowing that it’s Crowley who’s on his knees, taking him so, so well. He lets the words that he only says in his fantasies spill forth from him, drunk on sensation and the desire to let Crowley know how well he’s doing. 

“You’ll need to be good for me and hold yourself still because I can’t bury my hands in your hair to hold you in place. Oh, would you like that, you sweet thing? If I pulled your hair and used your mouth just for my pleasure?”

Crowley lets out a grunt of agreeance, and Aziraphale can feel it reverberate through him. He pumps his hips faster, deeper into Crowley’s mouth.

“Oh, I know you would. Not many people would get on their knees just to suck a stranger’s cock, but you’re so _good_ at it, aren’t you? And you need this, don’t you? Need to feel wanted and used and good at something, need to feel lov--” 

He cuts himself off before he accidentally lets too much slip, and in the silence, beyond the squelching noises echoing in the two rooms, Aziraphale hears the faint sound of a miracle and then the slick sound of Crowley jerking himself off. It’s too good, too much, and Crowley holds his jaw slack as Aziraphale continues to fuck into his mouth, lets the angel use him as much and as hard as he needs. 

He thinks of Crowley’s face, of the fond look in his eye when Aziraphale makes a joke at someone’s expense, at the hard lines of him softening when Aziraphale smiles at him. He thinks of how much he loves him, and how he’s missed him, and then he thinks about kissing him softly on the mouth and that sends him over the edge. Crowley’s nose digs sharply into his stomach, and he comes deep down his throat with a high moan of “Fuck, _Crowley_.”

And then he freezes, and he can tell Crowley freezes too.

Crowley’s throat contracts around him as he swallows the last of his come, and he pulls off immediately. No care and attention paid to his softening cock like the last time.

His heart beats like a hummingbird and all traces of arousal that permeated his body leave him suddenly and he feels sick. He can’t believe Crowley’s name slipped out of his mouth. He’s left standing there frantic and very clearly not knowing what to do, so he stammers out an apology as he pulls up his trousers and sets himself back to rights.

“I’m--I’m sorry, please, I can ex--”

The door next to him slams open and Aziraphale’s heart drops into his stomach. Crowley is going to leave again, this time he doesn’t know how long, maybe for good, and he can’t bear thinking about it, but then his own door is thrown wide open and Crowley walks in before kicking it shut. The demon’s lips are red and abused, his trousers tenting where he’s clearly just shoved himself haphazardly back inside, but what sends an inappropriate lurch of lust through Aziraphale is Crowley’s eyes just visible over the tops of his glasses, blown wide with yellow, and _God_ he’s missed those eyes. 

Crowley opens his mouth several times, drawing it tight shut again, before he says, “When did you know?”

Aziraphale’s face flushes and he looks down before looking back up at Crowley, his gaze darting between his eyes and his lips and something easier to confront like the curve of his shoulder. “Last time you--you moaned when you um. Used your mouth, and well. I’d know your voice anywhere, so.”

He trails off, all the bravado from five minutes ago completely gone, and he wishes he could discorporate on the spot. His gaze remains fixed on Crowley’s shoulder, unable to quite look him in the eye. Crowley slumps back against the door and lets out a long, labored exhale. 

“Jesus Christ, Aziraphale.” 

His tone is what makes Aziraphale snap his head up. It sounds hurt and tired and _relieved_ , and he can’t understand it at all. 

“What?”

Crowley removes his glasses and shoves them into his breast pocket before scrubbing his face. He drops his hands, but his fingers continue to twitch at his side, nervous energy trying to escape. 

“I felt so _guilty_ about last week. I fucking--I took _advantage_ of you, I _assaulted_ \--” He swallows the words down and shakes his head. “And then this week I just couldn’t help myself. I tried to stay away, but I felt you here, felt the lust coming off of you, and I didn’t want you to--I wanted it to be me. And I knew doing it was wrong, but I still--” 

Aziraphale’s heart clenches with affection and relief floods through him. Crowley isn’t mad at him, isn’t upset or hasn’t seemed to realize that Aziraphale was taking just as much advantage after his realization. He crosses the short distance to Crowley and rests his hand on the demon’s forearm, delights in the feel of his toned muscle underneath.

“Oh no, Crowley, you didn’t. I don’t think of it like that, I--” He moves closer and Crowley’s face goes unnaturally still. Aziraphale doesn’t understand why until he realizes that Crowley’s half-hard erection is poking into his hip. _Oh._

“You haven’t finished,” he states plainly.

“Uh, no.” Crowley replies. 

A bit of his bravery from before rises up in his chest, spurred on by Crowley’s confession and the subtle hope he sees in his unguarded eyes. He smiles demurely, wickedly, and crowds Crowley up against the door until they’re pressed flush from chest to knee. Crowley’s cock stirs against him, and he slips his thigh between Crowley’s leg, lifts it to add pressure to his stiffening cock.

Crowley’s eyes grow wide as he keens out an “Angel?”

Aziraphale’s hands settle at Crowley’s hip and he holds him firmly, encourages the roll of them against his thigh. “Come on, darling, you deserve to come after all of that, after bringing me so much pleasure.” 

The back of Crowley’s head hits the door and he closes his eyes, whispers “Fuck.” His hips follow Aziraphale’s gentle encouragement until he’s rutting up against Aziraphale at his own pace, and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to look at Crowley, _really_ look at him as he brings himself closer to climax with Aziraphale’s thigh.

His eyes trace along the shell of his ear, a freckle dotting the end of his earlobe, and then trail down to his neck. The long column is thrown back, exposing the sensitive area of his throat, and Aziraphale notices a spot of stubble that seems to not grow as evenly as the area surrounding it. Curious how he’s never noticed before now. His throat works minutely as he pants and makes small _unh_ noises that will live in the safest part of Aziraphale’s heart forever. 

He wants to feel closer, and he pulls Crowley forward to rest against his frame as Crowley’s arms wrap around him. Crowley clings and buries his nose into Aziraphale’s neck, humps himself faster along his thigh, and Aziraphale can’t help but turn his nose to press firmly against the demon’s temple. The weight of his love for Crowley threatens to overwhelm him in this moment, and he can’t believe he has him here, just moments away from falling apart in his arms. 

Something about Crowley giving himself over like this unlocks some deep part of him, and he feels almost feral in his need to get impossibly closer. He moves one of his hands to cup Crowley’s arse, to press him tighter, and the other buries itself in his short, red locks.

“My needy demon,” he whispers into Crowley’s ear. “Let me make you feel good, just as good as you’ve made me feel. I want you to let you go, you _deserve_ it. Can you come for me, Crowley?” 

Crowley nods into his neck and lets out a pitiful, needful whimper.

“‘ziraphale,” he whines. “Pull--pull my--like you said before--”

His breath is coming in too fast to finish the sentence, but Aziraphale understands. He runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair to get a good fistful and tightens his grip, yanking the hair at the scalp. 

Crowley gasps and fists his hands where they’re held fast on Aziraphale’s coat as his hips jerk forward and he comes in his trousers.

“Fuck, angel,” he growls against Aziraphale’s skin, and the angel’s eyes roll back into his head with delirious desire. He clutches onto Crowley tighter as the aftershocks of his orgasm wrack through him, releasing his sharp hold on Crowley’s hair and pets through the short strands gently.

It’s magic, holding Crowley like this as he comes down from his high. The demon is boneless and relaxed in a way Aziraphale has never seen before. Clingy, as he pushes himself harder into Aziraphale’s soft touch at his scalp and the nape of his neck, and seemingly _happy_ as Aziraphale can feel the soft curve of his smile against his skin. 

Aziraphale loves him so much, has never felt anything like this, and he wants to tell Crowley, wants to let him know with no doubts that he is the most loved creature on this planet. But he pushes it down as he comes to the realization that he doesn’t know what _this_ is now. He doesn’t know if Crowley feels quite the same or if this will ever happen again. He swallows down the tightness in his throat and just nuzzles Crowley’s hair until Crowley pulls back and rests against the door once more. 

This can’t be the last time, he thinks desperately. Even if he can’t tell Crowley he loves him, even if it’s still too dangerous for that, he doesn’t know how he can go on with the knowledge of what Crowley looks and sounds like when he comes and not _do_ anything about it.

“I’m a creature of habit, Crowley,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but failing for the tremor in his voice. “I visit this club every weekend on Saturday. I arrive around eleven o’clock in the morning to give time for socializing before lunch, and then my activities in the afternoon vary according to my whims.”

Crowley lifts his eyebrow and Aziraphale raises his hand to brush against the corner of his mouth. Crowley’s eyebrows lift higher. 

“Every Saturday.”

He tilts his head down and lifts his gaze up, hoping the meaning is implied. Crowley catches Aziraphale’s wrist in his hand and swipes his thumb along the delicate bones there. Aziraphale is sure he can feel his fluttering heartbeat beneath the touch.

“Every Saturday,” Crowley agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns to the glory hole and doesn’t know that Aziraphale knows he’s the one behind the wall. Aziraphale doesn’t inform him until he accidentally cries out his name during orgasm.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley stands outside of the now-familiar building at 1:08 p.m. on the following Saturday. He miracles himself inside discreetly and walks up the stairs, his heart pounding in excitement with every step. He doesn’t bother checking if Aziraphale is following him - he knows he’ll be found.

He enters the narrow room-between-rooms, sits down, and waits. He looks around his surroundings now that he has the time to and wonders what, exactly, the tally marks are counting. Orgasms? Individual interactions? Were they all made by one person? He finds initials carved into a discreet corner and briefly considers adding his and Aziraphale’s before deciding against it because he is not a fucking human teenager on a first date.

It’s six minutes and thirty-three seconds after he’s entered the room before Aziraphale opens and gently closes the door in the room adjacent. Aziraphale clears his throat and then sticks several fingers through the hole to wiggle them at Crowley.

Crowley barks out a laugh and sticks his face at the hole after Aziraphale removes his hand. “You can just say hello, angel. You know it’s me.”

Aziraphale’s face suddenly comes into view as he squats down and purses his lips with a huff. 

“The point is _anonymity_ , Crowley.” He stands back up and hangs his coat out of view, and Crowley sticks his face further into the hole so he can see.

“They got coat hooks in there? This is the poshest glory hole I’ve ever seen.” 

Aziraphale glares at him. “Oh, for goodness--I do believe your role is silent. Could you keep quiet for once in your life? And get your head out of there, I can’t imagine how filthy it is.”

“Nah, I cleaned it,” he lies, but he sits back on his heels anyway, waiting for Aziraphale to proceed. Crowley feels slightly out of his body, because it doesn’t feel real that he’s gone from being away from Aziraphale for twenty-six years after a terrible fight to getting ready to suck his dick for the third time in only two weeks. He’s kneeling on this dirty floor and Aziraphale _knows_ he’s here, and he’s still untying his tartan cravat and sliding it from under his collar to hang with his coat. To be more comfortable. _For sex_.

Aziraphale stands back and crouches back down to look at Crowley. “Well. How do you want me?”

 _In every single conceivable way_ , Crowley thinks. 

“Take off your trousers. Slowly, like last time.” 

Aziraphale rights himself and begins to undo his trousers one button at a time. When he finishes, Crowley can see his erection beginning to tent near the hem of his pants. 

“All the way down. Put them on the bench.” 

Aziraphale snaps to unlace his shoes and he toes them off carefully before he bends and pushes his trousers down. Crowley tuts.

“Underwear too.” 

Aziraphale tugs on the hem of his pants and pulls them down to join his trousers. He straightens up to fold them and set them on the bench, and then faces Crowley once again, his cock jutting out from below his waistcoat, tartan socks coming up to his mid-calf. Crowley lets out a low, approving hum at the sight. 

“See something you like?” Aziraphale teases and Crowley grins.

“Oh angel, you have no idea. You have the single most stunning corporation this side of anywhere. I’ve dreamt about those thighs, but nothing compares to the real thing.” 

The angel blushes and gives him a coy smile. His cock stands neglected, which Crowley thinks is a real shame, given that he knows now how responsive it is. The whirlwind of the past two weeks hits him again.

“Touch yourself,” he growls out, and Aziraphale groans, obeys his command. He wraps his thick fingers around his even thicker cock and starts stroking himself. Crowley’s eyes are glued to Aziraphale, his gaze flickering between the angel’s hard length sliding in and out of his fist and Aziraphale’s lips, parted and puffing out little breaths of pleasure. He wonders idly how many times Aziraphale has done this, how many times he’s thought of Crowley while doing it. 

Aziraphale’s lips curl in a smile and he strokes himself a bit faster. “What if I just made you watch? I could sit here and touch myself and you couldn’t do a thing about it.”

“You’re literally next door, I could do many things about it. And I’d say you’re a terrible tease, and if you’d be so kind, Aziraphale, I would quite like to get my tongue on your bollocks.”

A dribble of precome spills over Aziraphale’s fist, and Crowley grins. “Didn’t you say something about me being quiet? Couldn’t very well talk with your thick cock in my--”

Aziraphale storms forward and shoves his cock through the hole, and Crowley eagerly ducks his head to deliver on his promise, sucking one of the angel’s balls into his mouth. He closes his eyes to savor the taste as he rolls it around on his tongue before tilting his head and giving the other one the same attention. He lifts his hand to jerk slowly at Aziraphale’s length, and presses his tongue right at the base of his shaft, elongates and curls his tongue to wrap completely around it and _squeezes_. Aziraphale lets out a choked out groan, and Crowley smiles as best as he can with his mouth so occupied. 

“I’ve thought about having you for so long,” Azirahale says suddenly, and Crowley pulls off him, curious as to the abrupt thought. He continues to stroke Aziraphale slowly so the angel can continue.

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, you’re quite… tempting, my dear. In all your forms. You change your style, your appearance so rapidly, but I always know it’s you. It warms my heart that I can pick you out of a crowd, however you’re dressed or presented that day. That sort of familiarity doesn’t come easily.”

Crowley lowers his head back to Aziraphale and kisses the side of his shaft gently, swipes his tongue along the length. He wants to kiss Aziraphale so badly, but they’re on opposite sides of the wall, so he kisses everything he can. 

“How long?” he murmurs, and takes Aziraphale’s head into his mouth, sucking softly and holding firm with his hand. Just letting Aziraphale talk, guiding him gently.

“Oh, centuries. Before the Arrangement, I know that much. What you said, about both of us working very hard to cancel each other out was true, but more than that I--I missed your company. We have… such a _nice_ time together, don’t we? You always say just the most ridiculous things. Such thoughtful things too, intelligent things.”

Crowley lets the quiet, pointed praise wash over him as he takes Aziraphale deeper into his mouth. He honestly had no idea that the angel thought about him that much when they were apart. Aziraphale takes his silence as permission to continue.

“I really haven’t done this much. This, here at the club. It started after--well, after you left. After _I_ left. When I joined a couple of years ago, I knew the gentlemen here sometimes engaged with each other, but when I learned about this spot, I admit I was curious about the idea. An ancient practice, but one that never held any weight in my mind. But then one day I was just so--so _lonely_ , Crowley. The separation is harder after we’ve fought, and you were gone for so much longer than you normally were, and I worried that I'd ruined things forever and I just. I needed to feel--well, I couldn’t see him. He could be anyone.” Aziraphale pauses. “He could be you.”

Crowley stills his hand on Aziraphale, lets him slip from his mouth and just sits. He wants nothing more than to walk into the next room, hold Aziraphale tight in his arms, and kiss away every single worry and doubt in the angel’s mind. Whisper reassurances about how he’ll never leave again, not now that they have each other like this, this fondness and longing even though they still haven’t said the words. He wants to make love to Aziraphale, wants him to know that he is so, so loved and appreciated, beyond what his mere words could convey. But he doesn’t, because that is not the game they’re playing.

“Aziraphale?” 

“Yes?” 

“Turn around.”

There is a beat of silence. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to eat your arse and it’s kind of hard to do it from this angle.”

Aziraphale lets out a low moan. “Oh. _Well_ , then.” He turns around and Crowley finally sees the angel’s perfect, plump arse, just barely out of reach, and then Aziraphale bends at the waist.

“I feel silly.”

“About to make you feel something else in a minute. Come on, I need you to get closer.” 

Aziraphale shuffles backwards until his arse is pressed flush against the wall. Crowley drags his thumb between his cheeks and Aziraphale lets out a high-pitched exhale.

“Need you to spread yourself, angel. Can’t get to you like this.”

Aziraphale’s hands come briefly into view as he spreads himself wide and presses back against the wall. Crowley takes a moment to appreciate the view in front of him, ridiculous as it is. His puckered hole is perfect and tantalizing, two words Crowley never thought he’d use to describe an arsehole, and the angel’s balls are drawn up tight against him, hanging plump beneath his arse. The hole in the wall isn’t large enough for him to really do this properly, but Aziraphale’s already bent over and vulnerable, and Crowley isn’t going to deny himself this pleasure. He leans forward and licks a broad stripe at his perineum, and Aziraphale groans out his name.

He focuses his attention at the swath of sensitive skin there, dipping his mouth lower to occasionally tongue at one of his balls before licking back up, teasing before he reaches the furled muscle in front of him. Aziraphale’s voice has turned reedy and needful as he works, the skin left wet and shiny with his spit.

Crowley pulls back and growls out, “Touch yourself, angel.” Aziraphale follows his command, and as soon as his hand touches his cock, Crowley dives back in and licks flat along the tight muscle between his cheeks. Aziraphale lets out a cry, and he continues to lick, gathering spit on his tongue to make him nice and wet and dripping, before he points his tongue and probes gently at his entrance.

He braces himself against the wall with one hand and fumbles with the buttons at his waist to get to his neglected cock with the other. As soon as he gets his hand around himself, he groans and pushes closer to Aziraphale. 

His tongue works rhythmically against Aziraphale to open him up slowly, loosening and relaxing the tight ring of muscle under the attention of his skilled mouth. He wriggles the tip into Aziraphale and undulates his tongue along him. Whispered praises and cries are spilling from Aziraphale’s lips and it just urges him on, needing to get faster, deeper. 

He thrusts his tongue in and out of Aziraphale’s hole and then pulls back, bites at the plump flesh of his cheek. 

“I miss you too,” he mutters. “Miss your laugh and your smile and your bad opinions on music and taking you out to dinner. Miss _you_.” He pauses. It’s suddenly vitally important in this moment for Aziraphale to know just how much he doesn’t want to live without him. “You know I would never leave you alone here, right? I didn’t want the holy water to--”

Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. “Darling.”

“Yeah?”

“I would like to talk about this, but perhaps in the near future when your tongue has not just been _inside_ of me?”

“Right. Yes.” His hand picks up speed on his cock and he moves back into position. “I know you’re close, angel. Want you to come whenever you feel like it.” And then he presses forward, his nose pressed against Aziraphale’s skin as he works his jaw and his tongue to bring Aziraphale to the brink.

It only takes about a minute more before Aziraphale is emitting little high, hitching breaths, his balls drawn up tight as he quickly approaches his climax. 

“I’m close, oh, please come with me, please, please.” Crowley hums his assent against him as well as he can and fists himself over and over, his cock slick with the precome that’s spilled over as he’s been facedeep in Aziraphale. 

He gives a particularly pointed thrust of his tongue and Aziraphale whispers, “Fuck, _fuck, fuck_ ,” and then cries out as he comes. His arsehole clenches around the tip of Crowley’s tongue and it’s so utterly filthy that it sends Crowley toppling over the edge. He pants against Aziraphale’s flushed skin as he comes down, and then Aziraphale is spinning around to face him. The angel’s face is pink and his eyes are hazy with his post-orgasmic glow and he smiles at Crowley.

“Please come over here.”

Crowley stands up, his knees aching in protest before he miracles the pain away, and he tucks himself away as he walks into the adjoining room. Aziraphale sits on the bench, his trousers miracled back on, and Crowley takes the seat next to him. His mouth parts in surprise when Aziraphale takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. 

“Angel.” 

Aziraphale looks him fiercely in the eyes and raises their hands, kisses the back of Crowley’s, and Crowley’s heart flutters in his chest. Aziraphale settles their hands in his lap and strokes his thumb slowly over the demon’s. 

“That was exquisite,” Aziraphale says, a small smile on his face. He continues to look down at their hands in his lap and he traces along Crowley’s fingers with his free hand, feeling every tendon and knuckle and fingernail.

The touch is soft, innocent, but it somehow lights up every nerve in Crowley’s body more than any of the other activities they’ve engaged in. It makes his scalp feel tight and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Aziraphale continues to sit in silence, his lips held tight, and Crowley waits for him to speak.

“There are things I can’t say,” he seems to settle on. “But I do hope you know that I’m… quite _fond_ of you, Crowley. I hope one day things can be different. Where we’re free to speak plainly. But please know that my affection for you is not insignificant. I feel scared and adrift when I’m forced to think of getting through life without your companionship, and I reacted quite rashly the last time we came close to this conversation.” 

Crowley turns their hands over and runs his fingers along Aziraphale’s wrists, along the veins beneath the thin bones there. Aziraphale sighs at the touch, and Crowley is once again stunned by how much these bodies can feel. How much hunger and desire and _speech_ can be communicated through touch with no words attached. 

“Aziraphale, look at me.” Aziraphale does, and there is an uneasiness within him that Crowley feels compelled to soothe away. “I meant it. The holy water is just insurance, for use only if another demon comes after us. Something big is happening, soon. Not in the next decade or five, but soon. Protection. S’all it is.” 

Aziraphale’s lips tighten, but he nods. “I understand. I still don’t know if I can give it to you, though.”

Crowley’s eyebrows furrow, but Aziraphale reaches up to cup his cheek and his hand is so warm, so assuring and he can’t help but lean into the touch. “I don’t know if I can give you something that dangerous, but I promise I’ll think about it.” 

He nods, and raises his hand to press Aziraphale’s hand harder against his cheek. Aziraphale runs his thumb along Crowley’s sharp cheekbone, and Crowley’s breath stutters out. Aziraphale glances down at his lips, and he licks them automatically. 

“Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?” Aziraphale whispers.

And something about the polite and proper way Aziraphale asks gets to him, as if he hasn’t been on his knees in a dirty room three weekends running servicing him to climax. He barks out a laugh and Aziraphale frowns. 

“No! No, yes, of course you can. It’s--I just had my _tongue_ inside of you.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I’m clean! You know we don’t work like that.” Crowley laughs again and shakes his head.

“No, I just mean--I think we did this out of order.”

Aziraphale laughs then too. “Yes, I suppose so. All the more reason to rectify our mistake then.” He lifts his other hand to cup Crowley’s face, holding him so gently, as if he’s the most precious thing in the world. Crowley swallows, and then they both move closer and then finally, _finally_ their lips brush together. Crowley never wants to be doing anything else.

Aziraphale’s lips are warm and pliant, and they move against each other over and over as they trade sweet, sipping kisses, delighting in the simplicity of it after their previous activities. Finally Aziraphale pulls back and rests his forehead against Crowley’s.

“Goodness,” he chuckles. 

“Yeah, definitely something,” Crowley replies. He ducks in to press one more kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek and then pulls back, takes the angel’s hands in his, and squeezes. 

“Can we do this sometime not here? Not that this hasn’t been indescribably glorious, but I’d like to get you spread out on a bed, lavish attention on more of you than the current situation dictates.”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose and beams at him. Crowley can’t help but kiss him again. 

“Yes, I believe I’d be amenable to that. Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow evening?” 

“It’s a date,” he replies, and he knows the small thrill at those words is running through Aziraphale as well.

They leave the room, the weird, transient place they’ve called sanctuary the past few weeks, and thread their fingers together as they walk back down the stairs into the main hall. They stand in front of the door and Aziraphale squeezes his hand. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

Crowley kisses him one final time before they separate. “Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go wherever you like.” 

They grin at each other before schooling their faces into careful, practiced neutrality. They exit the building and then go their separate ways along the sidewalk. Crowley is used to missing Aziraphale as soon as they say their goodbyes, but this time the separation doesn’t hurt as badly because he knows Aziraphale is missing him too. He shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls down the street back home.


End file.
